All Aboard!
by Haelia
Summary: Lestrade and John force Sherlock to take a holiday for his health. But, as usual, not all is as it seems on this tour...
1. Chapter 1

Something was wrong with Sherlock this morning.

John could spot it right away. He was oddly quiet, and seemed to lack the energy to insult anyone. Even Anderson had gotten by him unscathed so far. John knew better than to assume that all his teachings about manners and tact had finally sunk in, so the only conclusion he could come to was that something was wrong. The mission, then, was to find out what.

But Sherlock wasn't having any of it. The moment John got his _Are you okay_ look on, the consulting detective would glare and redirect his attention elsewhere - in this instance, to a waterlogged footprint in the sand. What use it could possibly have was beyond John.

"What's with him?" Lestrade questioned, drawing close to John's shoulder. The two of them were standing out of the way, letting Sherlock do his work on the first fresh crime scene of the day. They were on the banks of the Thames, where the body of a suspected smuggler had been found in the wee hours before dawn.

Hunching his shoulders against the chilly wind, John shook his head. "Don't know," he admitted. "I tried to ask him on the ride over, but he just started mumbling about water rot. Now he won't even look at me."

"Maybe you offended his delicate sensibilities."

"Huhm," huffed John.

The DI rolled his eyes. "Oi, Sherlock! I said five minutes. I have to let forensics in - what have you got?"

Rigidly, Sherlock straightened to standing and snapped a latex glove off his left hand. "Enough to go on," he said, striding over to where Lestrade and John stood waiting.

"Yes?"

"He's definitely one of your smugglers. The tattoo on his wrist matches the description given by the waiter from the hotel. Furthermore, the killing was not a message to anyone - if it was, he would have been beaten, or left somewhere to be found. Instead he was asphyxiated and dumped in the river - clearly the killer was trying to hide the body."

"How do you know that?"

"His shoes are missing. I guarantee you will find them at the bottom of the river, weighted down with blocks."

"Well, how did he get out of them?"

"I'm getting to that. Anyway, the killing was to tie off a loose end - if he talked, the whole game would have been up. Enter the accomplice. He - or _she_, but statistically more likely _he _- developed a guilty conscience shortly after dumping the body. You can see from the bruises... er, the bruises round..." It was then that Sherlock appeared to lose his momentum. His face crumpled into a grimace of concentration as he tried to grasp at what he'd been saying, blinking rapidly into the middle distance to clear his head. "The ligature marks around... no, that's... that's not right..."

John and Lestrade exchanged a brief look, each of them wearing identical frowns. "Sherlock?" John said slowly. "You okay?"

"Fine..." Sherlock replied, but he was pinching the bridge of his nose, his dark brows knitted in consternation.

"Okay, mate, you just lost your train of thought," said Lestrade, shrugging it off. "Just give it a minute, it's in there somewhere."

By now, however, all the colour had drained from Sherlock's face. "No... John, I..."

"Yep - sit down." With sudden understanding, John briskly pushed him down into a sitting position, one hand bracing his back so that he wouldn't fall over - and not a moment too soon, for Sherlock's knees were already buckling, and he gave way like a ragdoll under John's light touch.

"Jesus," Lestrade cursed as John knelt before his flatmate. "Wasn't it your turn to feed him?"

"It's not that," John said over his shoulder. He knew very well that Sherlock had eaten a full meal yesterday evening and had even had a solid nap directly after. He could go for days without eating or sleeping; this was not low blood sugar or sleep deprivation. Something was actually _wrong_ with him. John peered closely into his eyes, watching the color seep gradually back into his face. The detective was sitting quietly now, breathing slowly through parted lips as he waited for the spell to pass. Two bright brushstrokes of pink were beginning to blossom on his cheekbones.

"Sick?" The DI's voice held a note of dread. A sick Sherlock was no picnic. For anyone within shouting distance.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said faintly.

"Sherlock," said John in his best paediatrician voice, "you look like you're gonna throw up."

"No - no, I'm fine. Let's get on with it."

"Uh - yeah, _no._ You need to see a _doctor_, because that's what people do when they're sick. Come on. It's probably food poisoning from that awful Thai takeaway the other night..."

Sherlock sighed plaintively. "John, I'm - "

"And if you say 'fine' one more time," John interrupted, "I will sedate you and drag you to hospital."

And to this, Sherlock had no argument.

* * *

John sat in an uncomfortable waiting room chair for what seemed like an eternity while he waited for his friend to return with the diagnosis. His bet was on food poisoning still, but it had occurred to him that stomach flu could very well be the culprit. Either way, he was looking at several days of fighting to keep Sherlock tied down to the sofa instead of running around chasing drug smugglers.

At last, when John felt he could not read another issue of _Junior Magazine_, a pair of immaculate white trainers appeared in his field of vision.

"You the partner?" said the person attached to the shoes.

"Sorry?" John blinked.

"Sherlock Holmes? You the partner?"

"Oh - uh - yes." By the time John realised that _partner_ probably didn't mean _colleague_, he had already said it and it was too late. He dropped his magazine on the side table and stood to address the young doctor. "So, food poisoning or stomach flu? Or, knowing him, something more obscure?"

"Yeah, okay, my honest medical opinion - Mr. Holmes is suffering from acute stress."

That had to be a joke, right? "Sorry - what?"

"Stress," the doctor repeated flatly. "Overwork. Exhaustion."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"I'm not. I see this all the time. There is nothing medically wrong with him right now, but I highly recommend taking a holiday - or at least some time off to rest."

"A holiday," John repeated. "Really."

The doctor sighed, nodding. "Look, it's true what they say - stress can lead to episodes like this at best, and heart disease at worst. So yes, a break would probably do him well. What does he do? For a living?"

"Uh - he's a detective..."

"Right." He whipped a prescription pad out of the pocket of his lab coat and started scribbling. When he was finished, he tore the page off and handed it to John. "This is a note he can take to his captain, and they'll allow him to take a leave of absence. Often, this time off is paid in full as long as he's in good standing with his superiors, so - take it. Go somewhere, take a holiday."

John absently accepted the note, pocketing it messily as he stared uncomprehendingly at the doctor. Sherlock Holmes - seemingly inhuman, even superhuman, and yet human enough to experience attacks of stress. Of all things to knock him clean on his arse: stress. "Oh... kay," he said, feeling half in a daze of his own. "We'll... do that. Um... is he on his way out?"

"Just signing the papers now. Questions?"

"No... no, I don't think so."

"Good day."

Within moments of the doctor departing, Sherlock was arriving, shrugging his great coat on and looking extremely put-upon. But at least he had his colour back.

John, for his part, was beginning to smile. He really shouldn't have been doing - it wasn't funny, after all, that Sherlock had nearly knocked himself out at a crime scene. But he knew that the diagnosis must have annoyed Sherlock to no end, and that certainly _was_ amusing.

"Preposterous," the detective grumbled as he reunited with John. The two of them fell into step together toward the door. "Ridiculous. I cannot believe you subjected me to such - "

"You're not immune, you know. Nobody gets to sprint as long as you do and not pay a price." John slipped his jacket back on as they exited the hospital.

"Absurd."

"He said you should take a holiday - I think it's a good idea. You know, Spain could be nice. Enough culture there that even you couldn't manage to get bored."

"John, no," Sherlock said firmly, hailing a cab with more gusto than was necessary. As if to prove he was in perfect health. "We are going straight back to the crime scene. I may have missed something in my momentary lapse, and the smugglers could slip through our fingers."

John could not help but laugh. "That's what you think."

Sherlock's glare turned questioning.

John brandished the doctor's note. "I have here a lovely little slip of paper stating that you are medically unfit to work. All I have to do is hand this to Lestrade, and you are officially on sick leave for at least... what's it say here... ah-hah, two weeks."

The detective made a desperate grab for the note, but John was quicker, and it disappeared back into his pocket.

"You know," John said coolly, "the more I think about it, the more I like the idea. We should take a holiday. For your health. And my sanity."

The cab pulled up and Sherlock ducked inside first. "Please. Where would we get the money for something like that?"

John shrugged. "I'm sure we could manage something."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock said again. He knuckled his eyes, possibly in the hopes that he was dreaming and might wake up. It did not work, of course, and Sherlock was left staring at a very triumphant John from across the back of the cab. "John, don't. You know what I'm like when I can't work. You don't want that."

John's only response was to wave the note about again, and Sherlock groaned, collapsing back against the leather seat, defeated.

* * *

"Sick leave?" Greg stood framed in the doorway of 221b with his arms crossed over his chest and his feet wide apart, eyebrows lifted in muted surprise. "Him?"

"Yep," John confirmed. He handed the crumpled doctor's note to the DI. "Doctor's orders."

Sherlock groaned from the couch. "It's ridiculous. Lestrade, _tell_ him."

"No... actually, I think it's a rather good idea..." said the DI, thoughtfully, as he examined the note. "I mean, you've been going nonstop for too long, you've probably pushed yourself too hard. We can do without you for a couple weeks. A holiday might be just what you need."

"Just what I - oh _God_, not you, too. Would you listen to yourselves? Somewhere out there, a murderer is on the loose, and you're suggesting we go sun ourselves instead of catching him."

John grinned and pocketed the note once more. "Now we just have to think of where to go that he won't be able to get into any trouble."

Sherlock buried his face in the sofa cushions.

"I might be able to help with that," Lestrade said brightly. "Listen, I'll come round tomorrow, okay? Don't make any plans just yet."

"Um, alright, but listen - will you, uh..." John lowered his voice and pressed close to Greg so that a certain consulting detective couldn't hear. "Will you really be all right without him?"

The DI rolled his eyes as he turned for the door. "Scotland Yard functioned without him once, I'm sure it can manage again."

"Right then. See you tomorrow."

When Lestrade had gone, John turned gleefully to Sherlock. "What do you suppose he's got up his sleeve, then?"

Sherlock lifted his face to glare at John, his cheek lined with imprints from the leather cushion. "If it's not murder, I don't care," he stated petulantly.

* * *

The next afternoon, Lestrade arrived as promised, brandishing two small yellow slips of paper as he sauntered through the door. His expression was delightfully devious, and John leapt up to greet him. "Here you go," the DI declared, shoving the slips of paper into John's hand.

"What's this?" John inspected one of the papers by the light streaming in from the window. "Cruise tickets? You're _giving_ us cruise tickets? Don't you want them?"

With a mischievous smile, the DI reached into his coat pocket and produced a third ticket. "I'm coming too."

"Greg, this is too much, we can't..."

"I won them in a radio contest a month ago. Still hadn't figured out what to do with them, but this seems the perfect way to use them. After all, Sherlock can't get himself into that much trouble confined to a boat, can he?"

John barked a laugh and shook his head, wondering if the consulting detective was prone to seasickness at all. "I should hope not. Hell, he might even be forced to relax and enjoy himself. This is brilliant."

"Leaves next Saturday. How do you suppose we break the news to Sherlock?"

"No need," said a new voice from the hallway. Sherlock slumped in the doorway to the sitting room, dressing gown hanging off one shoulder as he glared at the two men. "What makes you think I can be convinced to set foot on a cruise ship?"

"Oh, between the two of us, I think we can manage," Lestrade mused, exchanging a look with John.

"Ugh," was all Sherlock managed to that, before he slunk back to his microscope.

Greg and John could only grin at one another.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

"We are bloody _late_."

"We wouldn't be, if you hadn't insisted upon going through my suitcase."

John huffed, glancing up at the back of the cabbie's head as they sped through London. "I _insisted_ upon going through your suitcase because it was _empty_. We're going to be gone a week and you hadn't packed. So now you're stuck wearing what I've packed for you, and we're late."

"Pity," Sherlock replied, though it did not sound as though he felt it was.

"Yeah," John said, glaring now at Sherlock's pale profile from across the backseat. "You didn't really think that not packing would keep us from going?"

The detective snorted gently. "Please. Childish." But, in truth, that was exactly what Sherlock had thought. He was under the mistaken impression that having an empty suitcase, and forcing John to remedy the situation, would delay them enough to miss the ship's departure time. What he hadn't accounted for, however, was that John's years in the army had taught him a thing or two about packing in a hurry. So, Sherlock's clever ploy to miss the ship had actually only resulted in a twenty-minute delay in their schedule. And half of that was due to Sherlock taking forever to get his bloody coat on.

"Childish," John parroted back. "Right. That's not you at all. So, then, why weren't you packed?"

"I was focussed on other things. Namely - people being murdered by drug traffickers."

"Oh, so you were _investigating_, were you, while you were lying on the couch all of yesterday afternoon? Not watching _Doctor Who_ and demanding that I fetch you tea and butter biscuits, surely."

"I'm exhausted, John, remember?"

_Oh, for God's sake,_ John thought. "Now you're just being difficult." Then, another, more frightening idea occurred to him, and that was that he had not given this whole holiday thing a lot of forethought. He was agreeing - no, demanding - that Sherlock accompany him on a cruise for a week. Seven days. With no escape from each other. With no cases to distract the snappish detective. Most people would relish a chance at seven days with no more obligation than those presented by chlorinated swimming pools and round-the-clock bar service. But Sherlock? Sherlock needed work, craved intellectual stimulation at all times, and when he couldn't get it, he became insufferable.

_Well, that's the point, isn't it?_ John reminded himself. _To force him to quit seeking out mysteries to solve and _relax_ for once. _He imagined that detoxing Sherlock of the Work would be much like detoxing a drug addict of their poison of choice. He'd resist, at first; and then he'd be miserable; and then when that cleared up, he'd feel much better for it. At least, this was how John was telling himself it would be. _And besides, it's for his health_, he added.

Somehow, though, John was not confident that the process would be painless for all those involved.

"You're staring, John," Sherlock's voice cut in. He had one eyebrow lifted quizzically.

Forcefully shaking himself from his thoughts, John tore his eyes from where they had been fixed on the middle distance between himself and his flatmate, and let his gaze roam Sherlock's form instead. He frowned. "You needn't have brought the, uh... Belstaff."

Sherlock took one look down at his great woolen coat and glared at John as though he had just committed the highest of sins by suggesting he leave it at home.

Luckily, John's mobile rang then, distracting them both with a tinny version of _Für Elise._

"It's Greg," John proclaimed apprehensively, accepting the call and lifting the phone to his ear with a warning glance at Sherlock. "Hi, yeah, we're - what? No, we're on our way now. Ten minutes or so, I think, why? Oh. Well, we wouldn't have done, if the World's Only Consulting Detective was capable of packing his own bloody suitcase! Yes, you heard me correctly. Who knows. Right, okay. Be there in a few." John disconnected the call and stuffed his phone into his pocket. "We've missed the safety briefing, apparently."

"Dull," retorted Sherlock flatly.

"You might change your mind when I throw you in the sea for making us miss the boat."

"Ship, John. It's a ship."

* * *

Greg Lestrade was appropriately dressed for a vacation at sea. He wore lightweight linen pants, leather flip-flops, and a breezy short-sleeve button-up. Needless to say, he was _not _appropriately dressed for the London chill. Gooseflesh stood out on his exposed forearms as he met John and Sherlock in the lounge of the _Inspiration_.

"Uh... you know it's not going to be terribly hot during this trip, right?" John asked as he herded Sherlock toward an open table.

"I'm on holiday," Greg pouted.

"We haven't even left port yet," John pointed out.

Greg shrugged and checked his watch. "Okay, I'm on holiday in three minutes." The DI sniffed, looking a bit put out, and turned his attention to Sherlock. "Oh - here... you'll be wanting one of these," he said, fishing in his pocket. He produced a small white disc and held it out to Sherlock. The detective hesitated, and Greg sighed impatiently. "Take it. I'm not gonna watch you puke your guts up all week."

"Mmh," was Sherlock's only reply, but he accepted the motion sickness patch anyway, peeling off the adhesive backing and sticking it behind his ear. When he noticed John looking at him, he glared in a _Don't even bring it up_ sort of way.

For a moment, it looked like Greg might gloat, but he apparently decided against it. He held the packet of dramamine out to John and wiggled it. "Need any?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks." Somewhere above them, a bell chimed over the ship's intercom, and John glanced at his mates. "Shall we go up on deck for the launch?"

* * *

The ship itself was a marvel of modern maritime technology. It was impossibly tall, for starters. It was also equipped with two swimming pools, six restaurants, nine bars, and a theatre. The cabins were spacious and well-outfitted, and waitstaff meandered throughout the ship, ready to take drink orders or make spa reservations.

On the observation deck, Sherlock, Lestrade, and John stood breathing in the salty air, waiting for launch. A porter had taken Sherlock and John's bags to their stateroom, so that they weren't encumbered by their luggage as they gazed out at the sea.

"This is nice," Greg enthused, grinning widely. "This'll be fun. We could all use a little holiday, yeah?"

Sherlock eyed him dubiously. "You're shivering. This is hardly appropriate weather."

_Leave it to Sherlock_, thought John. He poked Sherlock's arm with his index finger, digging in to get his attention. "You," he drawled, "need to relax and try to enjoy yourself. For once."

The detective shrugged his great coat higher onto his shoulders. Already he was glancing over his shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd, no doubt reading every little fact that their expressions and their manner of dress could yield. "Can't turn it off like a tap," he murmured. It was a phrase he had used on Greg several times before.

John sighed. "I'm not asking you to, I'm simply - "

The long, deep blast of the ship's horn cut him off.

"We're moving!" Greg said, leaning over the safety guardrail to look down at the docks. The patrons of a waterfront restaurant were waving goodbye from their patio dining tables. A moment later, the people on the docks followed suit. A cruise ship in another berth answered the _Inspiration_'s whistle with her own, in three short blasts, as her passengers waved jovially from the decks.

"Now you're on holiday," John said, patting Greg's shoulder and gently pulling him back on the correct side of the rail. Then it occurred to him he had never asked the most pertinent question about this cruise. "Where do we make landfall?"

Lestrade shuffled his feet, his fingers dancing a little on the deck rail. "I don't remember."

Sherlock turned, his expression something close to alarm, but bordering on suspicion. "You don't remember?"

"Vigo," he said quickly, snapping his fingers. "Spain. That was it. Then... Bilbao, and Paris, then home again."

"That sounds fun," John said cheerily. He grinned up at Sherlock. "Even you can't get into too much trouble in countries where you don't even speak the language."

Sherlock smirked, and Lestrade stared at his shoes.

"Oh _God_, don't tell me," groaned John, his gleeful expression melting into defeat.

"Just Spanish," Greg assured him, with a wink.

"A little French," Sherlock added.

* * *

Greg's prize tickets had gotten the boys a spacious stateroom on one of the outside corridors of the ship. It was lavishly decorated, and contained two double beds and a small living area with a television and a desk for Sherlock's laptop. Sliding doors led to a small veranda with a couple of lounge chairs facing the ocean.

At the moment, however, the room smelled faintly of sick and John was draped unceremoniously across the foot of one of the plush beds, facedown. Greg sat next to him, one hand rubbing circles in his back as he tried to look more sympathetic than amused.

Sherlock, for his part, was standing in the open doorway of the veranda, leaning on the threshold as he gazed out at the sea. He'd dressed down to a short-sleeved button-up and slacks, shirt untucked. The Belstaff lay discarded on a chair. "The view _is_ rather spectacular," he said over his shoulder.

"That's just _wonderful_," John moaned into the duvet.

"I told you to take the dramamine," Lestrade pointed out.

"Not helpful."

"Well," sighed Greg, as he glanced at his watch. "Dinner's in ten minutes. I guess you're waiting it out here?"

"Ugh," was the sound John made without lifting his head. "Yes. And leave that dramamine behind before you go."

Lestrade stood and fished the medicine out of his pocket, tossing it onto the bed within arm's reach of his stricken friend. "Feel better, mate," he said, wincing at his own platitude. He beckoned Sherlock to follow, and the two of them headed off to dinner.

"So why a cruise?" Sherlock prompted as they sat down to menus and water at one of the ship's restaurants. "That's the only thing I can't work out."

Greg shrugged, trying and failing to appear nonchalant. "I had the tickets lying about, and no one to give them to. Why not?"

"Doesn't make much sense - trap a sociopath with two thousand other people in a confined space, something's bound to go wrong."

"Not if you don't go looking for trouble."

"I don't go looking for trouble," the detective pointed out, grey eyes ghosting over the menu with limited interest. "Trouble finds me."

At this, Greg couldn't help but snort. "Right."

A waiter appeared at their table then, each of his overwhitened teeth visible as he smiled down at them. "Drinks, gentlemen?"

Lestrade gave Sherlock a warning look, but the detective's eyes were focussed elsewhere - over Greg's shoulder, at the moment. Good. Maybe the waiter would get through dinner unscathed. He smiled. "Scotch, neat."

"Very good." The waiter turned to Sherlock, but the detective was ignoring him, his eyes still fixed on something over Greg's shoulder.

Greg tapped the table lightly. "Sherlock."

Minutely, Sherlock shook his head, now frowning at whatever had caught his attention on the other side of the room.

Lestrade turned to look over his shoulder, and saw what his friend had been staring at. The patrons seated closest to the doorway had all gotten up, and were milling excitedly around the threshold. "What d'you suppose that's about?" he wondered aloud.

But Sherlock had already stood up. He dropped his napkin onto the table and drifted toward the throng of people, looking perplexed.

"Wait, hang on," said Greg, getting to his feet as he apologised to the waiter for their rudeness. He wound his way around the other tables to catch up to his friend, drawing level with him as they reached the threshold. The knot of people had grown, and they were all murmuring to one another, some of them shaking their heads in bewilderment, others whispering animatedly with expressions of disbelief.

With his left hand, Greg reached out and took hold of Sherlock's arm. "Come on," he said, leading the way and pulling him toward the corridor, where the crowd was thickest. "This way." They pushed their way through, and Lestrade caught the eye of a middle-aged blond woman who was talking rapidly to her husband. "What's going on?" he asked.

"There's been an accident or something," the blond said, her eyes wide as she glanced between Greg and Sherlock. The crowd was pressing them together so that they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and uncomfortably close to the woman. "I heard someone might be hurt."

"_Really_," Sherlock drawled, suddenly enthralled.

Greg nudged him in the ribs.

"Yeah!" the woman exclaimed, sharing in Sherlock's indecent excitement. "It's a zoo up on deck, I couldn't even get through. My sister's up there, somewhere," she added, seeming put out that she couldn't get to her, rather than worried for her well-being.

"Fascinating. Lestrade - come on."

Before the DI could protest, Sherlock was pushing through the crowd, sprinting down the corridor, and then taking the steps two at a time.

"Wait," Greg panted. "Where are we going?"

"Observation deck," Sherlock shot over his shoulder. He thrust a hand back for Lestrade. "Hurry up!"

The blond tourist was absolutely right. The observation deck was a madhouse. A thick crowd had gathered, the epicentre of which seemed to be on the starboard side. People craned their necks to see over others' heads, and many passengers asked the same question of one another: what was going on?

"Out of the way," Sherlock grunted at the other tourists as he shouldered through the crowd. "Security, coming through."

All of a sudden, Lestrade found that they had broken through. They had found themselves at the guardrail, where a man, a woman, and a security guard stood. The man and the woman appeared to be in some sort of row, and the security guard was planted firmly between them, apparently trying to prevent them lunging at each other.

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked, projecting his voice over the din of the crowd.

"Someone's fallen overboard," another passenger called out.

At the guardrail, the woman was shaking her head. "He didn't fall, he was _pushed_!" She stabbed an accusatory finger past the security guard, toward the man who stood scowling on the other side of him.

"What are you talking about?" the male passenger demanded, indignant. "I was just standing here!" He looked to the crowd. "Tell her!"

But if there were any witnesses to the man's activities (or lack thereof), they weren't speaking up.

"That's enough!" the security guard snapped. "Everybody just calm down, please!"

Sherlock separated himself from the crowd and stepped past the quarreling passengers to peer down into the sea below, ignoring the security guard's subsequent protests to step back. Greg followed, and the two of them looked down together. A few small boats had deployed from the cruise ship, and their pilots were searching the waters with the aid of a spotlight from one of the ship's mid-level decks. It appeared that there were rescue divers in the water, as well, but as yet no one had found the missing traveller.

The detective turned to the crowd, addressing them as a whole. "Did anyone see what happened? Anyone?"

"Hey, I know you," exclaimed an American near the front of the crowd. He was pointing. "You're that detective, Sherlock Holmes." He turned to his fellows. "Sherlock Holmes is on this ship! He can help us!"

More excited murmurs swept through the crowd, and Sherlock turned to look at Greg. "See," he said, eyes dancing with triumph. "Trouble finds me."


End file.
